


pitching fur to the floor

by peterspajamas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Animal Death, Bad Parent John Winchester, Blood and Injury, Crying, Drunk John Winchester, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester-centric, Traumatized Sam Winchester, Violence, Young Sam Winchester, i guess?, towards the dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterspajamas/pseuds/peterspajamas
Summary: Washington. 1996.Sam finds a dog outside of their motel room and takes her in.In his defense, he didn't know what would happen.
Relationships: John Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	pitching fur to the floor

**Author's Note:**

> this is very very sad. it's just. horrific. idk 
> 
> so the main tw is for dog death. i tagged it as abusive john just to be safe, but his role is not super active. he smokes in it and it's implied that he's been drinking- i was this close to making it dean critical but tbh that would knock me out so hard i would have to abstain from fic for a week. dean is allowed to be nice in this one. 
> 
> i don't normally insult my writing in notes, but keep in mind that I _am_ like. self taught and i go to public school in the USA, this might not be that.... great.

Sam's tired, because 8th grade is harder than he thought. Today, it’s because he’s skinned his knees, both of them, trying to win at baseball. Dean's face had pinched when he saw the holes and the bloody marks on the knees. Sam isn’t in the mood for it, and he’s tired, so he’s skirted the room and found an escape.

This motel has a vending machine, which he thinks is nice. Sam likes the ones like this, they’re good for disappearing. He’s rolling a stale can of diet coke out of the thing, trying to fit his hand through the flap, when he hears a low whine. Sam swallows; long, and backs towards the wall. He has a handgun in his pocket and sharp eyes. He'll be fine.

He pops the top. Flat, half cold diet soda helps the dry fear in his mouth. ‘Hello?’ Sam asks, looking around.

There it is again, the noise. He holds up his gun, sudden, dropping the can and cursing himself for it when it spills on his feet. Sam rounds the corner and clicks the safety off, desperately hoping it’s a mugger and not a monster. 

It’s neither. it’s a soft bellied bulldog laying on its side and watching him curiously. Sam pockets the gun, smiling slowly. ‘Hey,’ he coos, dropping into a crouch. She squints at him.

‘Oh- gosh,’ he whispers, stroking a hand along her silky fur. One of her paws raises up, trying to hold hands. He's wary. but she bats insistently at his hand until he’s fully sitting, holding her paw. ‘Hey, girl.’

One of her loose, puppyish limbs, stretches out. Like she’s Sam, just grown. Her head pillows softly into his lap and he has no choice but to pet her. Her fur is a pretty sandy brown, that looks like it would be more chestnut colored if she weren’t so dirty. She's a bulldog, and Sam's near-encyclopedic knowledge of the _The Dog Breed Guidebook_ comes in handy. Gentle, slightly playful. Not nearly as mean as she looks. 

Sam squints out the railing. It’s a little rainy outside, drizzling. They _are_ in Washington state. Makes sense. He sighs softly and she echoes it with a snuffle. He lights up, scratching behind her short hair. Her fur is like. Well. It feels like-

Before Sam turned six, he had a stuffed dog that he had gotten as a special treat from one of his teachers for winning the school spelling bee. John had thrown it out after a few months. Sam sure had been upset at the time, but it’s just stupid if you think about it; he’s 13, now, and he knows. He shoves the toe of one of his sneakers through a gap in the railing, watching as a street light flickers across from him.

Sam sighs, gently putting a kiss on her forehead. She wiggles around, settling into his lap. ‘You’re too heavy,’ he laughs, because she’s young but definitely not a puppy and only half of her really fits. He doesn’t move her. 

It's kinda nice. He likes the peace. The bulldog, who he decides should be named Shiloh, is very sweet. He tries to remember- has Dean read _Shiloh_ for school? Sam doesn’t wanna get teased. He decides it doesn’t matter, not really, and continues to stare at crystal rain.

His t-shirt feels kinda thin, he’s shivering under it, but he’s a big boy now and there’s nothing bad about a little ice. Shiloh butts her head against his tummy and Sam smiles down at her. 

He hears a snort behind him. ‘You got a dog?’ Dean asks.

‘Hey, she’s good,’ Sam defends, biting the inside of his cheek. Shiloh pants, mouth hanging open and happy. ‘She’s a good girl. See?’

There’s a reluctant smile on Dean’s face. Sam is beaming on the inside. ‘She already trusts you,’ he comments. 

‘Dogs tend to do that when you pet ‘em for a few hours. If they don’t do it for you, I’m sure it’s personal,’ Sam replies dryly, digging one hand into her belly so she’s wagging her tail as he scratches.

‘Anyway, I was thinking we’d get dinner,’ Dean says, thumb jerking back to the door into the room. 

‘Pizza?’

‘No,’ Dean replies. Sam doesn’t let his face give him away. He is still tired. and he’s tired of Dean especially. He doesn’t want to hear Deans obnoxious talks with someone over the phone, and his condescending explanations of ghosts and other monsters. Sam wants choices, ones that aren’t between cardboard bread sandwiches and soup with half frozen peas. He chooses plenty at school. He wants to choose pizza and for Dean to let him get the kind with the green peppers.

A soft sigh into his lap interrupts his train of thought. The snuffly dog. Sam glances down, softening. ‘Aww, are you tired?’ he asks quietly, under his breath. 

‘Get inside, aren’t you cold?’ Sam shakes his head, guiding her body into his arms. 

‘I like this dog,’ he says, simple as that. ‘You do what you want, I’ll... I want to stay out here.’

‘She trusts you,’ Dean repeats. ‘It’s nice.’

Sam rolls his eyes. ‘Thanks for the observation.’ He hears the door click shut. Her round eyes are the color of peanut butter and he’s sure that just given the chance, he could have a best friend.

Dean doesn’t mention it when Sam leads her into the motel room, eyes pleading. Just shakes his head and talks loudly to a Heather that sounds smart and important. Sam isn’t interested in girls- or he is, but he doesn’t really have many contributions. Not much to offer, Sammy Winchester. 

As low voices talk over the phone at a formica table, Shiloh settles down on the floor and he collapses, cross legged, next to her. Sam's walkman was made about ten years older than it should be, but it provides the same kind of thrumming background music that the drizzling rain had been. It used to be his dad's.

Deans quiet words echo at him- _she trusts you_ \- and Sam feels ridiculously happy with it. Dogs are man’s best friend. Love you forever, trust you to the end. Shiloh is putting her trust in him.

Stupidly, Sam begins to do the same.

-

  
  


Dean throws two- two!!- ten dollar bills at him without Sam having to ask, like, a million times. Sam feels like he’s hit a jackpot, lighting up inside. ‘Thank you!’ he says, so surprised his voice cracks.

‘Your dog is nice,’ Dean says, nodding at her form slumped on the floor. ‘Taking in a stray isn’t the worst thing in the world. if you have any extra, bring it back to me, though,’ he warns.

There’s probably a sacrifice they’re making for the collar and leash. Walking to school even when it’s raining, because gas money is going to a dog. Or Dean can’t use the money for a date. Sam doesn’t care. He practically dances through the still falling rain, navigating these narrow streets and residential avenues crowded with bushy evergreens. Every yard in Washington state has a pine tree. Like a rite of passage.

The pet store is pink walled, and it has little pictures of different dogs hung up. Sam doesn’t know if he belongs. This time he has money, which is more than he can say for his usual experience in a store. Music like from an italian restaurant plays, swirling and kind of jazzy and with humming alongside it. he scratches his legs, bending down to get his knees too. they’re still a little sore but it doesn’t matter. One, far wall has the collars on it. He slowly walks over, letting out a sigh. He's never been this antsy with excitement.

It’s the red. He sees the red, with a brand new pendant, shiny gold, dangling off of it. He holds it up. It's thick nylon. The kind of thing that would hold up on a hunt. 

Sam leaves the store with a red collar, Shiloh’s name on it in sharpie, and a long gray leash. 

‘I’m back!’ he calls as he walks in. 

‘She tried to get up on your bed,’ Dean informs him. Sam is distracted by the eager licking Shiloh is bestowing on his face. He kisses her back, on the forehead, and smiles at Dean. 

‘That's fine.’ he tugs on one of her ears and she goes frowny for a second, though her tail is still beating with excitement to see him home. Sam feels like he might explode. She's like him; all uncontrollable emotions. 

‘That dog is not getting on the beds. Come on! We already got hair everywhere.’

‘Every time you bring a girl over a wad of hair gets stuck in the shower,’ Sam teases. He stands up and fastens the brand new collar around her neck, admiring how pretty she is.

‘You’re 13, Sammy, I'm sorry but I just don’t think you understand these things,’ Dean replies airily. 

Sam throws the leash at him, smacking him in the face. ‘shh. i think Shiloh wants to sleep.’ he guides her onto the bed. she sniffs for a long time, finally curling up. when she lays down, her head is facing him. peanut butter eyes pushing him to curl into the scratchy sheets, too.

‘I feel like I should get a picture. For posterity.’

Sam laughs. ‘if you really want to help me out, could you get my walkman?’ Dean nods, tossing it over. Shiloh, like she’s been doing for the past day, crawls over to Sam and sits right on his feet. 

Red is Sam's favorite color and he thinks it’s really nice that it belongs to Shiloh, too.

-

Janet is a latchkey kid. She thinks he’s like that, but Sam knows it’s not quite the same thing. not at all. He's more like... a stray. ‘Can you walk home with me?’ she asks, though, oblivious.

‘Sure,’ Sam agrees easily. The sidewalk is wet. He groans inwardly. 

‘You seem kinda lonely,’ she offers, then flushing. Sam is more red than her. It’s the truth, isn’t it? ‘Sorry.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s fine,’ he says softly. ‘I’ve been busy with my new dog, though. Not a lot of time to make friends.’

‘A dog! what’s his name?’ she asks, beaming.

Sam knows that he hasn’t had her long, but he’s still proud. ‘I named her Shiloh.’

‘That’s a really good name.’ She smiles. tentative. 

He’s proud of it, proud of the way she lays at the foot of the bed and makes all his Rockwell dreams true. She’s a _good dog_. Maybe he’d expect something so attached to Sam to be nasty. Biting and untamable, strong willed. The kind of dog where it’d be easier to just mercy kill.

Shiloh is as good as they come. She could belong with any family.

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Uh, this your house, right?’ 

‘Oh. Thanks for walking me.’ 

‘No problem.’ He waves goodbye and shoulders his backpack and walks. The detour is an extra twenty minutes, but if he tries to go fast he can make it in less time. A pop of thunder flickers at his attention. 

His steps are sponges. All wet, and there’s grit in his sneakers. Sam’s really tired, all ready to dive into the motel bed starting to become home. Maybe with a book. Get Shiloh up by the pillow, head pillowed on his skinny chest, and smother himself in blankets and listen to the new _Counting Crows_ album he’d saved for for so long. There’s only one block until the motel, now, so he makes extra-special sure to look not so suspicious. His feet are still kicking up water droplets and he’s disappointed with how sodden his sweater feels. 

Sam looks up into the parking lot, face falling suddenly. _Collapsing_ , more like. The car is in the lot. His footsteps slow but he doesn’t stop, trudging to the door. Twisting his fingers together, Sam stands stock still and silhouetted in the doorway, tiny and just wanting to see his _dog_. But post-hunt Dad is a careful thing, a terrifying thing. Deep breath in- he enters the room. 

His dad’s smoking and it doesn’t smell like this is the first one. He’s sitting on _Sam’s_ bed and- ‘Where’s my dog?’ he asks, breaking into a nervous sweat. 

‘What, no hello for your old man? How long have I been gone, Sam?’ He wheezes with laughter. ‘Come on.’ 

‘Welcome back. Dad.’ Sam watches, wary. 

‘That’s better.’ He closes his eyes, stubbing the cigarette blindly and dropping it into Sam’s glass of water, that he keeps there in case he gets thirsty. ‘What were you saying?’ 

‘There was a dog in here,’ Sam says, rushes it out. ‘I- where is she? Where’s Shiloh?’ 

His dad cracks an eye open. He looks like he’s been crying. ‘We don’t need that mutt, don’t be stupid,’ he says. 

Sam’s eyes are going to crack like a sidewalk. Gushing blood. Gushing tears. Pathetic ones, that put little kids to shame. And past that, he feels like a bookend. Forgotten, shuffled between different thrift shops, and perfectly, perfectly still. 

‘What?’ His voice cracks. “I thought… I thought we could keep her, though,’ he says, _manages_ to say, though he feels crushed. He knows all the hopes were for nothing, he’s known it deep down, but he had a little trust for his dad. 

‘Can you give me one good reason why we should keep it?’ Dad asks sharply, irritable and red from drinking.

‘Her,’ Sam says softly. his dad inspects him. He's waiting for an answer. ‘I- no,’ he says, head hanging low. ‘I’ll take her to the shelter,’ he mutters. 

‘Won’t be an issue,’ his Dad rumbles, eyes shutting again. He lights another cigarette. Sam watches the ashy flame burst to life. ‘I took care of it.’

‘I didn’t get to say goodbye,’ Sam says immediately. Those are his words, but his first thoughts are that he doesn’t trust his dad to have done this, not the right way. 

His hands are scratching flakes of skin down his arms and he’s ready to flee, _escape escape escape_ , sit against the vending machine like he had just two weeks ago and drink diet soda and pretend the rain was something fresh and magical. ‘You still can,’ Dad snorts, the way he does when he thinks he’s very funny. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

Dad shrugs. Sam blinks away sandpaper tears. ‘Took it into the empty lot- didn’t want to bother with dragging the damn mutt to the shelter.’ 

A net of nausea is hanging between Sam’s stomach and his throat, which is where the fear is welling. Dad hasn’t even bothered to lie; Sam can still see his dog, because she’s in the parking lot. ‘Tell me, tell me you didn’t do anything to her.’

Dad _laughs_. Sam feels like he can bite through bone. ‘You couldn’t prove she was worth it. You were never going to,’ he says callously.

Things turn hazy, briefly dizzy, as Sam whirls around, toppling out the door. Dean’s walking in, and Dean sees him and frowns. ‘Sammy, you look-’

Without a single word, Sam steps down off the ledge of the door, legs wobbling, and rounds the corner of the motel. 

Shiloh. She’s gruesome. A large, bloody hole in her head. Torn through her skin. Her fur, that was so soft, is drenched by the rain, because his dad just left her here. The red collar he was so happy- it’s got a rusty stain on it. She’s died alone. Sam makes an awful noise, a dying wail, and his knees crunch to the ground. ‘Shiloh- Shiloh…’ he mumbles, breath like a flickering candle blowing out useless smoke. 

There is a _hole_ ripping through his dog’s skull. His dad took her and shot her. He’d heard the gunshot. It hadn’t been thunder, Sam had heard… He’s pure panic, and slowly combing a bit of scabbing blood out of her silky fur. Mouth wide with a sob, it drenches out everything else. 

He doesn’t know what to do, what does he _do_ , she’s all bloody and there’s bits of brain matter laying around. His throat is twitching. Why’s she not moving?

Sam’s crying and not stopping. ‘She’s dead,’ he whispers, face crumpling to pieces. ‘Shiloh is dead, oh gosh, she’s _dead_ , Dean, we have to- she’s _dead_ ,’ he says, breath blanking. Anyone can see the whites of his eyes as he tries to fix her fur so it doesn’t look so bad, but the bullet has gone clean through her eye socket and Sam was so proud….

He was going to get in bed with her this morning. Dean’s standing next to him, white with shock and turning rapidly paler. ‘Animals die, Sam, don’t be too sad about it.’ 

Sam feels sick. She was such a- a pretty dog. Shiloh has slack muscles and blood now. ‘Dad killed her, though.’ Dean flinches. 

Sam’s out of breath. He’s in another world. His beautiful, beautiful, beautiful dog is dead. He wrenches his Walkman out of his pocket, the one Dad gave to him, and flings it to the ground where it breaks into pieces. 

And Sam breaks down. He’s sobbing like he’s not human, he doesn’t know how this happened, how it’s even fair. She’d been so good- she’d died alone. Her fur is slightly sticky and he silently wills her to wake up, crying the whole time. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he whispers. 

Because Sam is fucked up and he doesn’t belong with real people but he loves this dog so much that it’s not even real. He’s curled into a ball, now, and he’s lifted her soggy muzzle onto his lap so that he can pet at her hair, careful. ‘Sammy, you gotta calm down- you’re- Dad can probably hear you,’ Dean warns him. 

Sam is sobbing. And he hates it. Hates it all. Himself. The damn dog. He shouldn’t have put himself into her like that. He hates himself. She would’ve died on a hunt anyways, and he’d be in the same place. ‘Shiloh,’ he whispers. ‘Good girl, good- good girl.’ He twists. ‘Dean, we have to bury her somewhere special,’ he says, eyes wild.

‘Sam, it’s not a big…’ Sam wrenches himself to full height, cradling the dog. His teeth are chattering together. His dad killed his dog. The eye without the bullet hole is open and drooping. Brown eyed dog.

Sam fiddles with the gold pendant on her collar, dragging himself to the place where asphalt turned to dirt and forest. ‘Dean,’ he whispers, ‘Please help me with this.’ 

Sam is somewhat used to his father stealing these things out from under him because he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. Sam hasn’t mattered for a while; Dad likes to keep him deprived, anyway, he doesn’t know anything better. But he thinks that somewhere in there, the honor code says this isn’t alright. He can’t understand why someone would _ever ever_ put a gun to her head and fire it, enough so that it’s lolling in his arms and he sees blood dripping in a path behind them. 

Sam is shaking. Reeling at the loss. He feels like a swinging hammer, about to crash into everything. Total destruction.

Every kid eventually comes to the realization that their father’s quest is not about goodness. About revenge. Purity. It’s about killing things. It’s about shooting a gun and watching things bleed until you feel better.

And Sam wishes he realized that before he brought the little bulldog home; he wishes he had realized it before he got attached.

‘Sam.’ Dean is cradling her head and staring at him. ‘I think you’re going to drop her.’ 

He does feel dizzy. Sam does think that he is on the verge of collapsing into balled terror and grief. He sits quickly, watching his brother gently take Shiloh out of his arms, frowning at the rain-soaked fur. He wonders if he should take the collar off but watching it makes him feel sick so he just turns his attention to the funeral pyre. Sam makes sure to tuck her legs up, and lay her tail out over her hind legs. Something on her face is oozing; he doesn't look.

The ceremony takes a long hour, because they have to dig for firewood and Sam is crying so hard and one of the blood vessels in his eye burst. His chest shakes with the occasional, out-loud _sob_ and all that grief chews away at him. Eventually, though- 

Shiloh burns. Dead as soon as the bullet hit her head, and now it’s turning into smoke lighting up the sky. ‘Sam, you wear my jacket, alright, you're cold-’ 

‘Don’t touch me.’ He places both hands on his collarbones and tries to lift the air back into him. His quilted breaths, pieced together with the moments where he’s too stuck in shock to remember his own dog is dead, are rough in the winter air.

‘I’m going to go,’ Dean says awkwardly. Sam pushes him away. 

He waits until the last log goes out. He breathes. He stares at trees. He remembers her wagging tail. They'd gotten real close, and he's scared that she was confused when his Dad came home. Probably drunk, probably stumbling. Tripped over a fur rug, because she always laid out on the floor, tongue lolling, when Sam came back from school. He scratches at his cheeks, tasting blood- crying blood- and tries to lead himself through a train of thought that doesn't make him believe the most likely truth: his dad had been vicious when he took her into the lot, and she'd died scared. 

His hands are numb. Sam is just now realizing how bloodthirsty fathers really are; the rat traps his dad would show off for their efficiency. His pure satisfaction when the silver bullet makes a home. Did he smile, Sam wonders, when Shiloh’s crooning whines turned into beleaguered wheezing turned into dying-noise? Did he laugh and kick at her head? He’s breathing out of tune again, wanting to dive into the pyre and wrap her in his arms. 

Sam turns around. He walks back to the motel room. He’s a mess. A breakdown. And his dad notices it, curled on Sam’s bed, sneering. ‘You been crying over that mutt?’ 

Sam wraps his hand around his neck and coughs. ‘I hate you.’ He’s more miserable than angry. 

‘Oh, come on. You don’t cry this much on the anniversary of your own mother’s death.’ Sam cringes, he knows it’s coming, he tries to pretend it’s not. ‘You think you’re special? Wait until you’ve lost something real.’ 

Goosebumps are coming alive on his neck, He’s in from the cold, now, and the false warmth is eating him alive. ‘I’m sorry,’ he chokes out. 

Dad is _right_. He’s going to die alone. Like his dog. Before Dad and Dean, after them… it doesn’t matter. He’s still going to be choking on the same blood, the same tears that feel like acid and it’s still going to be alone. ‘And you damn well should be!’ Sam’s shoulders fly up.

Dean is sitting at the table, listening, but he turns around when he hears the sharp shout. ‘Dad…’ 

‘That dog didn’t mean a fucking thing, I put it out of it’s goddamned misery. You’re disgusting, crying your eyes out. What’s it gonna do?’ he taunts. ‘Be your fairytale pet?’ Sam can hear the fluorescent lights buzzing in the next room. ‘You couldn’t afford it anyway.’

Sam makes a noise deep in his lungs, toothy things that chomp away at his reality. He’s still feeling crazy, like he’s on the verge of thrusting a fist into the wall. His sanity is ripping out by the roots. His dad's patience with him won’t last long.

‘You’re hysterical, look at it.’ John shakes his head. Sam’s frozen fingers open and then squeeze closed.

Sam turns around, blinking quickly. His tears are still going. His throat is raw from the cigarette smoke and the smell of his dog, and he’s just dragged her up from the asphalt where his dad shot her dead. His dad is back to grumbling, looking at his journal in bed. 

Sam staggers to the bathroom, leaning over the sink. He’s trembling. The goosebumps have followed him here and the fluorescents’ noise is even louder. ‘Sam, please don’t freak,’ Dean says quietly. 

He registers the fact that earlier, when he’d seen her like that, he’d been crying, wailing like a banshee, and Sam just stays still. He is staring at porcelain and wishing he could have kept _his dog_ from being put to sleep. Mercy, mercy- John Winchester has none. He has no holding back. It is just finishing blow after finishing blow. He will kick Sam when he is down. He will kick the dog. 

Sam registers a light hand rubbing his back. It’s Dean. ‘Dean,’ he whispers. 

‘I can’t believe he would do that,’ Dean confesses slowly. ‘Shiloh is a good dog, okay?’ 

Sam’s eyes shut away into vast emptiness. He’s looking at what death feels like it should be. ‘He killed her alone. My dog died alone because he couldn’t be bothered to take her to the shelter.’ And still, here he is, explaining and explaining, so that Dean won’t try and argue in Dad’s stead. _He did a bad thing, I need to be sad, don’t tell me not to feel sad, animals die but they shouldn’t, not like that, Dean, please._

‘I hate him for this,’ Dean replies honestly. Sam slumps in his arms. 

Sam’s next words don’t appear, and the rest of them fall away, like he’s fallen to his knees, fallen on his back. Dean is staring at him, the little that’s left. The pieces of Sam left are bloodstains on this motel floor. They are betrayed. When he thinks of her, it’s not the scratchy tongue licking his face, or the large weight leaning on him: it’s the hole torn through her head.

-

For years- decades- he dreams about her. She likes to hold hands, and she’ll put her paw up until he grabs it. Sam finds them to be a relief, even if he’s uncomfortable thinking about the hysterical boy sobbing his lungs out and finding out that his dad doesn’t just kill monsters.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this didn't make you too sad. um. i feel like this is mostly about sam just being so sad and betrayed that he feels sick over it, but it's also about john and sam. at this point, john doesn't love anything. mary's been dead for a decade. the way he "shows his love" is by trying to toughen his sons up, which is mostly aimless cruelty. he doesn't care about what makes sam happy. he doesn't care about animals. he doesn't regard sam as something that _matters._ he might not view him as a monster yet but he also doesn't view him as a whole person. part of that is that sam's a child and men like john don't realize that children.... have thoughts and feelings of their own? and part of it is that sam is "on his way" to "becoming a monster." 
> 
> anyway. the realization that your father is keeping you around only because you're his by blood, and the realization that he doesn't just give away the things that don't matter to him is the worst part of this to me. because sam is the dog. he loves the dog. he is the dog..... im not sure and this was HaRD TO WRITE goodby!!!!!
> 
> edit: also i put so much symbolism in like.... sam's crying blood because of his eye his dog was shot through the eye. he's not more than an animal... john doesn't just put stuff away. he kills things. john doesn't care.im going insnane help the way he's going to remember this as stupid hysterics for the rest of his life and that's what she's going to mean to him fckc fuckjesus fuck 
> 
> leave a comment if you liked? hopefully you're not too sad. if you are, here are some nice pictures of my dog: [that's my main blog, not my sam blog](https://jean-and-diet-coke.tumblr.com/post/640138419032457216>)


End file.
